


Bean There, Done That

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, D/s-esque, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Jack Morrison Unexpectedly Discovers Some New Kinks, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stuffing, Voyeurism, gerbiling, threats against a third party, we take our crackfic seriously around here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jack makes some new... friends?? And then things go wrong. And get weird.R76kink memefill.Prompt:Jack getting stuffed with Reaperbeans. Bonus if they squirm a lot and multiple orgasms ensue.





	Bean There, Done That

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever seen something that made you go "ha ha ha, _what_?" but then you start trying to figure out how it would even _work_ and then you accidentally spend so much time thinking about it that you're like _well I guess I'm the person who has to write this_. Anyway. Here we go.

Reaper retreats from their second and third encounters, just like the first. When they meet for the fourth time, Jack lets himself be chased all the way into a big dead-end room. An alarm goes off as Reaper fires on him; a pair of blast doors begin to close behind them, and Jack thinks _this is it_. Nowhere left to run. The alarm makes Reaper draw up short, and for just one second both of them stand still. Then Reaper throws down his shotguns and dissolves, rushing for the door.  
  
But the hesitation costs him. The doors settle shut even as he flows through, cutting off a portion of the black particulate mist. The trapped mist spatters against the seal. Then it sinks to the floor and churns restlessly over itself like fog stirred by a breeze.  
  
By the time Ana reaches his location and re-opens the sealed blast doors from the outside, the mist has transformed. She finds him standing there in the middle of the room, surrounded by half a dozen blobs the size of freshly-hatched chicks, peeping and tumbling energetically over and round his feet. He looks up as Ana runs toward him.  
  
“Hey,” he says. “Can we keep them?”  
  
  
   
  
  
It doesn’t take them long to find out that the blobs are not exactly… alive. He and Ana have a brief debate about whether they should be brought along or left behind; and then, in the process of trying to gather them into a makeshift sling fashioned from his jacket, he steps directly onto one. It gives a single tremendous squeak, like a rubber dog toy. He lifts his foot, horrified, and finds that the blob has been flattened into a thin black disk. As they stare in shock, the disk spreads out like pancake batter, and then starts to evaporate off the floor. The vapor forms a small, swirling, low-hanging cloud. Then it abruptly pops back into its original shape. The reformed blob plops onto the floor, tilts its body back to look up at him, and peeps reproachfully.  
  
“Sorry,” Jack says.  
  
They bring the blobs to their hideout. It’s risky; they don’t know whether Reaper has any connection with these pieces of his body, even over long distances. But this is the best - the _first_ \- chance they’ve had to study Reaper directly, and they can’t pass up the opportunity to learn anything about his physiology. And if they have a way to lure Reaper back to them, all the better. They have unsettled business.  
  
But, first, the blobs get sealed into specimen jars (or, more accurately, glass flower vases turned over and weighed down with rocks) for observation. The blobs remain there for three days without any source of food or water and seem entirely unharmed by the experience, though there’s an accusatory tone to their squeaks after they’re freed.  
  
As soon as it’s clear that the blobs are resistant to being hurt, Ana escalates the experiments. She runs an electric current through one until it dissolves into mist, and plunks another into a vase of water for an hour. She holds the blobs hostage while she makes Jack walk away to see whether they will dissolve to follow him when he gets beyond a certain range (they don’t), and whether they can tell which direction he’s gone (they can). The blobs get poked, and prodded, and chilled, and heated, and dropped, and tumbled, and everything else she can possibly think to do using their limited equipment.  
  
Jack becomes the blobs’ unofficial caretaker, and he does his best to keep an eye on and corral them around as needed. The blobs may not be alive, but they can perceive and react to the world in limited ways, and they like to be close to people. Specifically, they want to be close to Jack. They swarm to him whenever they’re not confined. They tolerate Ana, but he is their clear favorite. They must be guided by some kind of homing instinct, something that helps all the pieces of Reaper’s body stay in proximity and reconnect afterward when he switches between forms. Jack doesn’t know why the blobs prefer him. Maybe they just… imprinted on him, like ducklings, for lack of other options. Or maybe it’s biological. In some sense, he is more similar to Reaper than any other person on the planet: the only other still-living product of the Soldier Enhancement Program. Maybe his biological makeup is close enough to Reaper’s to somehow trick the blobs. Or maybe they just resent Ana for bullying them more than he does.  
  
He grows unaccountably fond of them. He can’t help but think of them as stupid, helpless pets instead of animate pieces of Reaper’s body. It’s hard not to. They appeal to his most basic protective impulses. They’re small, and energetic, and too fat and stubby to do much of anything on their own. They’re - well - cute. The way they bounce reminds him of Mexican jumping beans, and that’s how he starts referring to them: the beans. And the way the beans flock to him, and react when they see him, pleases and flatters some part of him in a way that he cannot explain.

But at night, he has to heap the beans back into one of the flower vases. It’s impossible to sleep otherwise. When they’re free, not only do the beans cluster to him, but they persistently gravitate to bare skin - for the heat, he supposes. He keeps himself well covered during the day, and it’s not difficult to guard himself from the beans while he’s awake; but they can’t risk letting the beans wander freely at night, and if he allows them into his cot, they keep him awake by bumping and squirming against his face and neck.  
  
Unfortunately, the vase does not stop them from making noise. Which they do, nonstop, when he’s not awake to pay attention to them. They only seem to do what passes for “sleeping” when they’re being held.  
  
He can’t quite bring himself to just move them out of the room. It feels too much like kicking a litter of whimpering puppies out of the house. But he’s used to sleeping through noise, and the arrangement is tolerable.  
  
—Until Jack wakes up with something inside his mouth, pushing his tongue down as it wiggles toward the back of his throat.  
  
He wakes so quickly that he chokes on the thing, then spits forcefully. A lump goes rolling across his cot, squeaking in protest. Jack unzips his sleeping bag down to the waist, sits up, and turns on the lantern beside his cot.  
  
One of the beans is on top of the cot with him, floundering and spit-soaked. As Jack watches, it rolls itself upright, puffs its little body out, and squeaks furiously. Jack wipes at the corners of his mouth and boggles.  
  
“How did you…?”  
  
The bean toddles over and promptly tries to climb into the opening of his sleeping bag. He hastily scoops it into one hand, making a loose cage with his fingers, and holds it at arm’s length.  
  
He looks across the room. The vase is still sitting upright on a crate. The remaining four beans are stacked on top of one another, braced against the glass wall. Piled together, the height of their combined bodies reaches more than half way to the top of the vase. They seem to notice that Jack is looking at them, because as he stares, bewildered, all four of them begin to squeak and bounce. It doesn’t take long for the tower of beans to lose stability and collapse. All of them tumble down, rolling and cheeping uproariously from the bottom of the vase.  
  
“How’d you get up here?” he asks the bean in his hand, as though it might actually answer.  
  
But that’s not hard to figure out. There is a makeshift table beside his cot, holding a lantern and a nearly-empty bottle of whisky; and there, right on the other side, is the slumping shape of his duffel bag. The beans have little, bird-like feet with surprisingly strong gripping strength, and they can hop short distances. The duffel bag would be easy to climb, and once they reached the table it would be just a short walk and a jump to the cot. Jack sighs and gives the table a hard shove, pushing it a few more inches away.  
  
Then a recent memory catches up with him. He looks back at the vase and re-counts the beans. Four. There are four in there. And he’s holding the fifth.  
  
Oh, God, where is the sixth?  
  
Jack looks over the edge of the cot to make sure he won’t step on the missing bean when he stands up, and that’s when he feels something nudge against him from between his legs.  
  
Jack does not scream. But he does, maybe, make a noise that he would not want anyone else to hear.  
  
He unzips the sleeping bag down to the bottom, reaches frantically into his sweatpants and boxers with his free hand, and extracts another bean. He holds it at eye level and stares at it.  
  
It is at this point that the situation gets out of hand.  
  
Both of the beans go wild. They start to wriggle and squeak urgently, throwing themselves back and forth and trying to squeeze out from between his fingers. Jack tightens his grip a little. But as they move, their bodies also begin to feel weirdly slippery, like soft-boiled eggs out of the shell. Then one of them slips through his fingers, bounces once on the cot, and makes an astonishingly fast beeline for the bottom opening of his pant leg. Jack slaps his hand down after it, but he moderates his strength and speed without meaning to. He knows they’re not alive, but it’s hard to separate that knowledge from the instinctive fear of hurting something so small. He misses entirely, and it dashes up his pants and along his leg. He can see the lump traveling along through his pants and grabs at it several times, but it slides like a ball of jello through his grip. When it reaches the top of his leg, it just wiggles right into his boxers, too. Then the bean rams itself between his legs with all the force of an aggressive, sentient marshmallow.  
  
Jack grimaces, uninjured but unhappy. But the bean is cornered now, so he doesn’t do any reckless grabbing. Jack leans back on one elbow and hastily begins to strip off his pants and boxers. But he’s barely gotten them midway down his thighs when he feels something happen. The bean’s little body pushes against him more insistently, and then its shape changes, melting and collapsing in on itself, and it… it just… It just goes into him. Jack feels a cool, liquid mass push itself against—then _into_ —his body, and then the bean instantly returns to its normal size and shape. Inside of him. It’s inside of him. Oh, my God.  
  
Both of his hands clench in shock, and the bean he is still holding peeps shrilly. He’s so startled that he drops it, and it tumbles onto his chest, rolls down his stomach, and plops onto the cot right between his legs. This time, Jack does not restrain his reflexes.  
  
Also a mistake, as it turns out.  
  
The bean splats apart into an inky puddle under the force of his hand. There’s a moment of horrifying stillness, and then the puddle seeps out from under his palm. It begins to swirl, drawing itself back together again. But, instead of completely reforming into a bean, the puddle abruptly slithers toward him and chases right after the first one. It feels like being licked by a cold tongue.  
  
Jack gasps and flailingly strips off his pants and boxers. He jumps to his feet, takes two entire steps, then turns around again. He sits back down.  
  
Sheer bewilderment has left his mind empty. He pinches his arm. It definitely hurts. He slaps the side of his face. Hurts.  
  
This is real. They’re inside him. They’re inside him.  
  
“Uh,” he says.  
  
“Uh,” he says, again, for good measure.  
  
Jack rallies himself. Okay. He just has to… get them out. That’s something he can do.  
  
Face burningly hot, Jack reclines a little and tries to push with his body, experimentally, to see if he can budge the beans that way. Nope. In fact, they start wriggling, and then they seem to… expand, becoming bigger to wedge themselves into place. They haven’t gone very deep, and the motions puts pressure right on his prostate. His dick, which has no concept whatsoever of how disturbing the situation is, gives a hopeful twitch.  
  
“No,” Jack says out loud. He clocks himself lightly on the jaw in a “keep it together” sort of way. Then he gathers as much saliva as possible inside his mouth, spits onto his fingers, and reaches between his legs.  
  
It’s not comfortable. Saliva is a poor substitute for real lubricant, but he slowly, so slowly, works a couple of fingers into himself and tries to scoop out the beans. He shifts around on the bed for several minutes, trying to find the most advantageous positions, but nothing works. He’s too dry, and not stretched out enough, to maneuver his fingers well, and the beans are slippery and malleable. They simply roll and shift around his fingers, offering nothing to grip.  
  
Jack realizes that he’s grinding his teeth.  
  
He won’t be able to do this by himself. He’s going to have to go to Ana for help. But all the activity has left him with an obscene, nearly full erection.  
  
Jack sits gingerly on the cot and stares down at himself. The situation is already mortifying enough; he can’t go to Ana with a hard-on, too. He could wait for it to subside on its own, but, with the way that the beans keep moving inside him and nudging his prostate, he’s not sure how long that will take. And he doesn’t know what might happen to him in the meantime. Casual contact with the beans hasn’t yielded any detrimental effects so far, but they’ve only tested _exterior_ contact. He knows what Reaper can do to living tissue. He doesn’t want to wait long enough to see whether he’ll start to rot from the inside out.  
  
So. So, he’s going to have to get himself off, and then he can go to Ana and endure the most acute embarrassment of his life. And then he can go back to sleep, and that will be that.  
  
Jack scoots to the top of the cot and leans his back against the wall, bending his knees up. He can feel himself clenching periodically in reaction to the bean’s movements. They’ve been squirming the entire time. He’s hard but not particularly… turned on. He’s not _excited_ about what’s happening. His body has simply reacted to the situation regardless of his other feelings and opinions. But he can’t deny that the pressure and fullness inside him feels… feels good. He hasn’t had anything since…  
  
Jack grabs the bottle of whiskey, drains it between breaths, and then spits into his palm and begins to stroke himself. He’s rough about it, his fist jerking in tight upward pulls from base to head. He just goes at it for a moment, but it’s not quite… He needs something that’s…  
  
With his other hand he reaches down and cups the weight of his balls, squeezing a little. Then his hand drifts lower, and he rubs hesitantly at the soft, tight skin where he’d reached into himself, feeling his body’s helpless reactions. His face is hot all over, his chest blotchy red.  
  
It doesn’t take him long to get close. He's had minimal interest in or occasion for any kind of sex for years now, and the absence of touch has left him sensitive and reactive, embarrassment be damned.  
  
He tries not to think about anything. This doesn’t seem like the right time for fantasies or sensuality. He just picks up his pace, trying to force himself over the edge by effort alone. But there’s no way not think about what’s actually happening. He’s being fucked, in a way. He’s terribly conscious of the way the beans are moving, the way he’s being stretched from the inside, just like he might be stretched by Reaper’s fingers, or his cock.  
  
“Oh,” he says, and comes onto himself. He grinds the back of his head against the wall as his cock jerks and his body clenches. Wetness spatters onto his stomach. He keeps moving his hand for several seconds, shuddering and thoughtless.  
  
Then he feels something seeping from between his legs. Jack reaches under himself, alarmed. His fingers come away smeared with slippery black liquid. The beans have liquefied and are dripping back out of him. Like cum. Jesus, fuck.  
  
Jack holds himself stock-still, aghast, as the pressure inside him diminishes. A black puddle collects under his body. Then the puddle splits apart, like a cell undergoing mitosis, and gathers itself into two spheres. Feet form, and little wing-like appendages. The beans’ white facial markings seem to float up to the surface of their bodies from somewhere inside, like the die inside a Magic 8-Ball rising into view. And just like that, the two beans are back to normal. They peer up at him, squeak loudly, and dart forward to nestle against his bare legs.  
  
Jack immediately seizes them, rolls out of bed, and stomps across the floor. He shoves them down the neck of the vase, then tromps back over to pick up a magazine and one of his weights from the floor. The beans have already begun to pile themselves up again, and they squeak even louder as he returns. He slaps the magazine over the opening of the vase and balances the dumbbell over top, pinning it down. Then he totters back to his cot and collapses onto his face.  
  
  
  
He does not tell Ana about what happened.  
  
He makes excuses to stay away the next day, and tries not to feel guilty about how plaintively the beans squeak when he ignores them after getting back. That night, he wraps his sleeping bag around the vase to muffle the beans before sleeping, fully dressed, on a bare cot.  
  
Ana convinces him to help her with her work the next day. He picks up the beans a couple of times when they need to be moved from place to place. They’re ecstatic. Nothing unusual happens.  
  
The day after that, he flicks a pebble across the floor for the beans to chase around for more than an hour. Then he puts them into the pockets of his jacket and lets them sleep there while he does maintenance on his rifle.  
  
Things return to what passes, for them, as normal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Then Reaper finds him. It happens in the middle of the night. When Jack wakes up, Reaper is already there, standing silently at the foot of the cot. He’s a different shade of blackness than the rest of the room, his mask a pale smear like the moon behind cloud cover. He’s not holding his shotguns.  
  
“Ana,” he starts to ask, but Reaper cuts him off.  
  
“Isn’t hurt. But if you call for her, I’ll shoot her on sight.”  
  
“How did you find us?”  
  
“You called to me, Jack,” Reaper says. “Did you think I wouldn’t answer?”  
  
“I haven’t…”  
  
The denial dies on Jack’s lips. His mouth goes dry. Oh, God; Reaper knows they have the beans. That has to be what he means, right? Does he know that…  
  
“I’m going to turn on the lantern,” Jack says. Reaper lets him. Hoping that the roughness of his voice will hide any waver, he continues: “Took you long enough.”  
  
He’s more likely to get a telling response out of Reaper if he’s cocky and confrontational than if he lets exactly how surprised and horrified he is.  
  
But Reaper just gives him a perfectly casual shrug. “There was no rush,” he says, calmly.  
  
Jack tries to catalog that response. There could be any number of reasons Reaper hasn’t come to them sooner. There’ve been no more sightings of him since their last run-in, but he may have been doing work away from the public eye. Or he may have been struggling to recover from losing a chunk of his body. Or he may have been using whatever connection he has with the beans to gather information about them even as they ran their experiments. There’s no way to know.  
  
Reaper pins him under a stare. It’s unsettling to look back at him. No eyes to meet; just those pits in his mask.  
  
There’s probably a remark to be heeded about gazing into the abyss, et cetera, et cetera, but Jack just snorts and asks, “That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?”  
  
Reaper tilts his head slightly, and his voice comes out low and cool. “Did I leave you waiting, Jack? Are you so desperate for me that you’ll take any piece you can get?”  
  
Reaper starts to walk backwards. The tension in Jack’s stomach eases as Reaper widens the distance between them, right up until he draws level with the vase of beans. Jack realizes, suddenly, that they haven’t made a single noise. It was the silence that woke him up. Reaper takes the dumbbell off the vase. He flicks the magazine away. He picks the up vase and steps toward the bed again. The beans bounce and stir, tumbling over one another.  
  
“Let me give you what you’ve been wanting, Jack.”  
  
Jack stares at the vase. He can’t mean…  
  
“No,” he says. “No, no, no.”  
  
“Get out of the sleeping bag.”  
  
That, at least, is something he _does_ want. He’s clumsy as he frees himself. He hasn’t been nervous during an actual fight in such a long time, but now his hands are shaking.  
  
“Undress yourself.”  
  
Jack undresses himself. His clothes wouldn’t give him any real advantage in a fight between them, anyway; he’s not making anything worse for himself by taking them off.  
  
“Move to this end of the cot. Put your feet on the edge.”  
  
What else can he do? He obeys.  
  
“Put your hands on top of your head.”  
  
Jack hesitates. His heart is pounding so hard that his stomach is quivering in time. He stares into the eye sockets of Reaper’s mask as he puts his hands on his head.  
  
Reaper growls: “If you move your hands for any reason, I will leave.”  
  
Jack repeats those words in his head several times. It’s a threat, but not of violence. He’ll leave?  
  
_Let me give you what you’ve been wanting…_  
  
Reaper wants him to agree to this. Reaper wants him to cooperate. He’s setting up conditions for cooperation.  
  
Is he going to cooperate?  
  
Jack nods, one time, to show that he understands.  
  
Reaper says, “Open your legs.”  
  
Jack opens his legs.  
  
Reaper kneels at the foot of the cot and reaches into the vase. He selects one of the beans and lifts it, pinched delicately between two claws. Jack can only stare, transfixed like a fucking deer in the middle of the road, as Reaper brings it to his body and begins to press between his legs. Strange, blunt pressure. After a couple of seconds, Jack understands that it’s not going to dissolve like the other two did.  
  
“No, no,” he says, beginning to panic. He can’t take them like this, without any preparation. No lube, no stretching, oh, fuck.  
  
The bean doesn’t dissolve, but something else happens. It changes texture. It changes shape. Stretching, thinning. A tongue shape. Slippery.  
  
Reaper pushes it into him. Jack gasps.  
  
Almost instantly, he feels the bean return to an irregular spherical shape. Reaper reaches for another bean. Jack realizes, as clearly as if he’s looked right into the future, that Reaper is going to make him take all of them. He starts to pant out of sheer disbelieving hysteria.  
  
He takes three in a row with barely a pause. The last three come between longer intervals as Reaper graciously allows him to adjust to the fullness. It’s, oh, God, it’s a lot. Nothing has prepared him for this. But, as before, the beans mold to fit around one another as they move. They stir around inside him. By the time Jack takes the last one, his cock has lifted and filled out, and the relentless nudging pressure against his prostate is making him leak. Lying still and passive is maddening. He wants to shout or kick or sob just to have some kind of release. He stares at the ceiling, unable to endure looking directly at Reaper.  
  
“That’s all of them, Jack,” Reaper says, calmly, and Jack hears the vase clunking against the floor as he sets it down. Jack glances down the length of his own body, his legs and stomach trembling. He wants to know how long he’ll have to endure this, and under what conditions, but he’s afraid that asking will only invite higher stakes.  
  
But Reaper quickly satisfies his curiosity.  
  
“Can you come like this, Jack? Just from this? Without being touched?”  
  
“No,” Jack hiccups. “Oh, my God.”  
  
“I think you can, Jack.” Reaper’s voice drips out from behind the mask. “You’re tight. I can feel it. You’ve been alone for so long. I think this is all you need.”  
  
Jack turns his face away, squeezing his eyes shut.  
  
When he doesn’t respond, Reaper continues, “I’ll remove two every time you come.”  
  
“Oh, God,” he gasps. “Oh, my God.”  
  
“That’s only three times. You can do it. I know you can do it for me, Jack.”  
  
“Oh, my God. Oh, fuck.”  
  
He doesn’t think that Reaper is lying. He’s making an genuine offer. Three times, three times… And the first, at least, without being touched.  
  
Jack keeps his eyes shut as he focuses on the pressure inside of him. The movement. The intense, borderline-unbearable fullness. He braces his feet against the bed and begins to rock his hips slowly, riding the sensations, trying to lose himself in them. The steady, rhythmic movement helps. It’s easier to slip into the right space when he can channel himself into motion. He twitches on the the cot, letting his body roll with each wave of sensation. He becomes blank and thoughtless. He reduces himself to a mindless thing, an animal driven only by physical compulsions. He needs to come, he needs to come, he has to come, please, please.  
  
“You’re close already, Jack,” Reaper says. Jack doesn’t know how long he’s been like this. “Are you going to come?”  
  
“ _Ah_ … _Ah_ …”  
  
“Do you want to come?”  
  
He gasps. “Yes.”  
  
“Look at me, Jack.”  
  
Jack opens his eyes. He sees himself writhing, and vulnerable, and totally exposed to Reaper’s inscrutable stare. His cock drips onto his stomach.  
  
“Do it right now.”  
  
Jack grunts, his body abruptly driven the last inch over the line into orgasm. He remembers to be quiet. He tightens his hands in his hair and pulls roughly. But the beans make up for all of his restraint: they continue to push and squirm, shoving the orgasm out of him, making his legs twitch and jerk, until it’s all so much that he’s on the verge of taking his hands off his head so that he can try to dig the beans out of himself right then and there, consequences be damned. His back lifts off the cot.  
  
Then Reaper says, “Hold still.”  
  
He does, and immediately the pressure inside his body lessens. Two beans appear in Reaper’s uplifted palm, plump and seemingly no worse for wear. Then Reaper curls his fingers into a fist, and the beans melt into mist that weaves around and then sinks into his hand.  
  
“Just two more,” Reaper says, coolly, and Jack groans. His cock is ruddy and wet, barely less erect than before. He feels the beans taking advantage of the extra space to rearrange, lining themselves up neatly. There’s… there’s no way he can do this twice more on entirely his own. He swallows twice.  
  
“This doin’ it for you, huh?” he asks.  
  
Reaper doesn’t answer.  
  
“This is funny to you? You’re entertained?”  
  
Silence.  
  
Jack exhales, and closes his eyes. He’s aroused enough to still be game for this bullshit, but annoyed enough to test the boundaries of what’s permissible. “Come on, can you make the beans move, or anything? Give me something to work with here.”  
  
There’s a tiny pause before Reaper says, “Beans,” in a way that’s just flat enough not to be a question.  
  
Jack cracks one eye open. “Yeah, the…” He bucks his hips up slightly. “The, the things. Beans.”  
  
Reaper lapses back into silence, but the beans give a sudden surge that makes him see double. His dick twitches, and he blows out a wavery breath. “Yeah, that’s… that’s right…”  
  
It’s too late by far to be embarrassed or shy about what’s happening. He’s being fucked by semi-independent pieces of Reaper; he’s already come once; he’s willingly following the goddamn rules. He’s _enjoying_ this, God help him. He rocks shallowly on the cot, and the beans move in long, rippling rolls. He might as well get as much help as he can.  
  
If he could just turn over, if he could just rub against something…  
  
“Give me a hand,” he mutters. “You’re part of this, so act like it.”  
  
Reaper placidly tilts his head. “What’s the matter, Jack? Isn’t it enough for you anymore? You have to be stuffed all the way? Should I put them back?”  
  
Jack grits his teeth and clamps his body down. It feels good to him, but Reaper doesn’t react at all. Jack tries harder, clenching his body until his legs and back are uncomfortably tensed. An almost unnoticeable shiver rolls across Reaper’s shoulders. This is… actually affecting him. He actually feels it. Jack shudders. He relaxes his body as much as possible, lies still for a moment, and then gradually tightens up again. And, daringly, he allows himself to groan out loud. It’s a low, throaty sound, as though he tried to hold it back and couldn’t. He’s not surprised when the beans squirm reactively. His breath catches.  
  
Make it good. Make Reaper want it.  
  
Jack twitches and trembles for a moment longer, making a show out of struggling vainly toward an orgasm, before Reaper says, “I’ll let you have three.”  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to ask _Three what?_ before Reaper reaches forward and wraps a hand around his cock. Jack gasps, but manages to stop his body from jolting. Reaper still has his claws on, the cruel tips curled close to his skin without quite touching. The concave inner edges of the claws are cold and smooth. Reaper cradles his cock against the textured palm of his glove, the claws forming a line of cold spots up the length of his erection. He stares in open astonishment as Reaper pulls upward from the base to the tip.  
  
_One_.  
  
There’s… there’s no way he’s going to come from just three strokes. This is a joke. Mockery. Just something to tease him closer to the edge without bringing him there.  
  
Reaper dips the very point of a claw under his foreskin and glides it back and forth. Jack snaps his teeth together, his stomach jumping in fear. A bead of pre-come swells out of him and drips onto Reaper’s uppermost finger.  
  
Reaper withdraws the claw and strokes slowly downward. _Two_.  
  
Jack begins to pant. The muscles of his inner thighs are shivering. He stares helplessly into the expressionless mask.  
  
Reaper’s face is angled up, looking not between his open legs but directly at his face. He tightens his grip, pumps his hand upward on the third stroke, and brushes the side of one claw against the slick head of his erection.  
  
The beans give an abrupt surge, and Jack comes a second time.  
  
It’s all he can do not to clamp his legs shut. He’s aware of his whole body quivering like a plucked string. Reaper doesn’t withdraw his hand, his thumb and middle finger making a tight, unmoving ring under the head of his cock as Jack spills out over his fingers.  
  
Then Reaper pulls away, come streaked across his claws, and says, “Push.”  
  
Jack does, thumping his head back and staring at the ceiling as two more of the beans are drawn out of his body. This time, he doesn’t watch Reaper absorb them.  
  
“I can’t do this anymore,” he croaks. He’s all wrung out, his dick finally gone soft. Getting hard again, and getting off again, seems impossible. The very thought is exhausting. But he already knows that it’s going to happen. Reaper has established a set of conditions for Jack to fulfill, and he’s going to follow though with them. It’s just a question of how, and how long it’ll take. If he shows that he’s frustrated and overwhelmed, there’s a chance that Reaper will take over and just _make_ him come. It'd be a relief to just surrender himself to this.

“Don’t lie,” Reaper says, flatly. Jack’s too annoyed to answer, but he curls his lip and shows Reaper his teeth.  
  
He lies still for a few moments, letting his thoughts aimlessly drift. The beans aren’t moving as much, but he can’t entirely forget that they’re there, either. He wonders how much Reaper can actually feel - right now, or the first time. Did… did he get hard the first time this happened? Is he hard right now? Embarrassingly, the thought makes Jack’s dick twitch, reacting with some of the old super-soldier stamina that feels, now, almost traitorous. But Jack lets himself follow that line of thought. How long has Reaper wanted to undo him like this? How badly does he want it? He’s kneeling at the end of the cot as stoically as stone, but Jack’s not stupid enough to think that he’s indifferent. This isn’t even about the humiliation, or the punishment. It’s also about sex. It’s about some raw craving that they’ve never sated.  
  
Jack gets hard again, slowly. He starts to shift his legs and his hips, starts to clench up his body, trying to find some magical sweet spot that will be enough to get himself off. No, no, it's not going to happen, not like this. Then the answer dawns on him. Reaper wants him to ask for this. Reaper wants to know that he - that he likes this.  
  
Jack swallows, and opens his mouth, and closes it again, and then says, “Please.”  
  
“What?” Reaper asks.  
  
“Please. Please… I… I want, ah… I want to…”  
  
There’s a horrible moment of silence.  
  
“Close your eyes,” Reaper tells him. “Don’t open them for any reason.”  
  
Apprehension makes Jack’s stomach knot. “I don’t like surprises,” he says, stiffly.  
  
Reaper stands up to his full height, rumbling softly behind the mask. “Deal with the last two on your own, then.”  
  
“No,” Jack says, hastily. “No. I’ll close my eyes.” And he does.  
  
He doesn’t hear Reaper move again. His coat doesn’t even rustle or creak. There’s no warning before Reaper pushes his thighs open, takes him in hand, and licks the head of his cock. Jack’s reaction isn’t doctored at all. His gasp is entirely authentic. Reaper’s tongue feels like the beans did. It’s soft and slick, but not wet. He… what, created it? He doesn’t have a tongue? But he can speak clearly. How much of his face is left?  
  
Then Jack stops thinking altogether, because Reaper mouths down the side of his erection and sucks on the skin like he means to leave a hickey. He bucks lightly, and Reaper digs his claws in a little, beckoning him to be still. So Jack holds himself tense as Reaper returns his mouth to the tip of his cock and swallows him down. Reaper’s mouth feels all different - unexpected textures, the wrong temperature - but Jack knows how he gives head, and the familiarity of it makes him ache. He wants to open his eyes. He twitches his legs open wider as Reaper’s mouth rises and falls. He doesn’t move his hands or his hips, though. He’s staying still; he’s being good. But the two previous orgasms have left him extra sensitive, and when the beans also begin to move again, Jack curls his toes and blurts, “Ga - Gabriel…”  
  
Reaper bites. Not hard. Just a warning, accompanied by a growl. But Jack cries out softly, jerking his hips. “Like that… Do that…”  
  
Reaper pulls up with a low rumble. “Is there anything I could do that you wouldn’t enjoy?” He means it to be mocking.  
  
Jack knows that he should be cautious. He’s just gotten away with calling Reaper by name. This isn’t the time to be daring. But daring is exactly what he feels right now, so he says, “Anything in moderation.”  
  
Reaper actually laughs, and then Reaper is effortlessly flipping him over. Jack keeps his knees under himself, but his hands are on top of his head, so he goes down onto his face. He manages to push himself up on his elbows a little, but the position still leaves him arched and exposed. The vulnerability pours cool dread through his body, and then heat. Reaper puts one hand on the muscle of his ass, spreading him open, and uses the other hand to draw his cock back between his legs. Reaper’s tongue sweeps once against his hole, and once over his perineum, and once along the underside of his erection, and then Reaper’s teeth catch under the crown of his cock, and the point of one tooth settles against his urethra.  
  
The orgasm takes him entirely by surprise. He goes from half-done to completely finished in an instant. Reaper withdraws his hands and mouth immediately, which is just as well, because Jack’s legs go out, and he sinks flat onto his belly. But it doesn’t matter that Reaper isn’t touching him any more because the fucking _beans_ still are, pushing against him from the inside, drawing out the orgasm into a series of smaller peaks that have him jerking his hips against the cot and muffling his mouth. It’s so good it _hurts_.  
  
At last, everything goes still. Jack just lies there, exhausted. He barely registers the final two beans dripping out of his body. Then he realizes that he has no idea what Reaper intends to do now that the conditions of this encounter have been satisfied. Fuck - is Reaper going to  _shoot_ him? Jack rolls over and sits up, hands still on his head.  
  
“Can I open my eyes?” he asks, and then he does so without waiting for an answer. Reaper is already standing up, mask on, the last two beans being absorbed into his hand. They each give one soft little peep as their bodies melt, and a feeling of loss wrenches at Jack’s stomach. Reaper is going to take the beans away, and then he won’t have anything left. They’ll be separated. They’ll fight one another again, probably.  
  
“Wait, wait, wait, wait. Don’t go anywhere. Talk to me.”  
  
Reaper starts to laugh, and his legs melt out from under him. “Not interested in pillow talk, Jack. I'll call _you_ , alright?”  
  
Then the rest of him goes up in smoke, too, and Jack watches Reaper leave one more time.


End file.
